Never Kiss a Highlander

by Michele Sinclair

  “I believe you. Just as I believe you know how to take care of all our family’s needs,” she said, as she slipped under the covers and moved closer to her husband’s prone form.

  Robert patted her hand and said, “Indeed. I am a master mason. So trust me to build the perfect future for—” Before he could finish his thought, he began to cough again. This time, the fit lasted nearly a half a minute before he could breathe and lie back down again.

  Selah sat up and looked down at him. “I just wish you could fix your poor body. Your being sick—”

  “Could not have come at a better time,” he finished for her. “It made it much easier to persuade Hamish into accepting the role as temporary commander. I consider this damn cough to be God’s gift. He knows how stubborn Hamish can be. Just look how long it took for us to get him here.”

  “And the lengths you had to go to.”

  “I’m just glad he came when he did,” Robert said, giving her hand a slight squeeze.

  “And Mairead?”

  “I’ve been building this plan for some time, but Mairead is the reason why we are doing it now. I have not forgotten that.”

  Selah lay back down at Robert’s encouragement. “I just hope you have considered Hamish when it comes to her. The tension between them was palpable and it was not all anger that was sparking between them.”

  Robert opened his eyes and gazed at his wife. “Really?”

  She nodded.

  Robert smiled to himself. His plan could not be working better.

  Chapter Four

  Hamish stood next to the kitchen entrance and bit into the hard loaf of bread. The gloomy afternoon weather matched his mood. A pleasant cook was a rarity and none of them ever liked anyone coming in and out of their workspace, but at least the McTiernays’ foul-tempered Fiona could prepare a decent meal. The most Hamish could say about the food at Foinaven was that it was edible. This was the second day he had returned from the morning’s endeavors too late to even enjoy leftovers from the noon meal. It would not happen again. Dried beef, hard bread, and warm ale may fill his belly, but it did little to improve one’s mood.

  A breeze smelled of rain. Hamish looked up at the sky. It was growing thick with gray clouds and within an hour, two at most, it would be raining hard and for several hours. Thankfully, he had risen early and had been able to accomplish much of what he aimed to achieve. He had several more painfully early mornings to look forward to, but based on these first two outings, the results were worth it.

  Even last night’s meeting he had with his brother had gone easier than anticipated. Almost too easy. Robert had quickly agreed that Hamish would only remain for a short period as acting commander. Any other duties, including clan decision-making or overseeing any staff, would be handled and managed by Selah and Mairead until Robert was well enough to resume his responsibilities. The only thing they did not discuss was his approach to the Ulrick situation. Robert did not ask for information and Hamish did not volunteer any. But that had not caused Hamish to feel uneasy.

  He could not shake the niggling feeling that there was more to his brother’s accommodating demeanor. He just hoped that it was not a ruse to buy time and later ask him for more. For if that was true, Robert was going to be disappointed.

  Soft thunder rumbled from the distance and those working in the courtyard started to move their livestock and goods under shelter. Hamish was just about to step out and help one of the men load his cart when he heard the distinct sound of swords clashing nearby. He paused to listen and realized that it was coming from inside the great hall.

  Hamish pivoted and entered the buttery, deciding to enter the hall via the screens passage, which was used by the servants for easy access to and from the kitchens. A luxury in some castles, the passage was a necessity at Foinaven, unless the laird enjoyed his meals drenched from exposure to foul weather.

  Stepping out from behind the partition, Hamish ignored the sounds of scuffles and clanking swords and took a moment to look around. Since his arrival, all their meals had been in the keep so that Robert did not have to leave his rooms. Twelve years ago, the hall had been much smaller and constructed out of wood. Since then, it had been completely rebuilt out of stone and Hamish found himself surprisingly impressed. From the outside, the structure resembled most great halls, which were just wide rectangular rooms with high ceilings and little else to make them remarkable.

  Foinaven’s great hall was more simplistic than the one at McTiernay Castle, but it was also more than the boxlike shape that could be seen from the courtyard. Only when inside could the enormity of the room become apparent. The roof, nearly three stories high, was formed by several massive beams precisely angled and balanced on elaborately carved corbels. The northern side of the hall was to his right. It served as part of the curtain wall and was decorated with several clan banners—the MacBrieves and MacMhathains being the most prominent. To his left were two oversize wooden doors that opened to the courtyard and five large, square-shaped stained-glass windows, which let in more light than he would have thought. At the far end of the room was an enormous mantel that spanned nearly the entire width of the wall. Nestled within it were three fire pits, with the one in the center being the largest and the only one currently lit.

  Hamish would have spent a few more minutes taking in the great hall surroundings if his attention had not been almost immediately refocused on the spectacle taking place. All the tables and benches had been dismantled or stacked off to the side to create enough room for what looked to be a dozen men in their late teens haphazardly clanking swords together. At first, Hamish thought it a farce, for no self-respecting Highlander would agree to train inside just to avoid some bad weather, let alone do so in the great hall. But after a few seconds watching their expressions, he knew that they were serious—and terrible.

  Only a few attempted to move as they attacked and all of them thought too much. Each step taken was heavy and slow as if it was done by decision, not instinct. A marginally experienced swordsman could defeat any one of them without much effort.

  The swords were dented, dull, and incapable of doing damage, making them worthless in a real battle. In addition, they were small—perhaps two-thirds the length of his broadsword. Based on the men’s open stance, Hamish surmised none of the young men had even held a decent targe, let alone trained with one. The shield was just as important to training as the sword and could be a serious weapon in and of itself, if one knew how to use it. The only positive thing he could see was that their grip was accurate.

  Hamish stepped fully into view and was about to call everyone’s attention to stop the farce, when across the room he saw Mairead sparring with a lad who knew less than she did about sword fighting.

  Hamish stood there and stared. Mo chreach, the sight of her lunging as she countered an attack caused his lower regions to uncontrollably flare to life. He did not think it possible, but Mairead looked even more striking in combat with a weapon.

  The simple gown she wore enabled movement and accentuated her athletic body. Her golden brown hair was long and loose, restrained only by a single strap of leather in the back. It swung about her as she and a much taller boy shuffled around each other, periodically stabbing the air in an effort to throw the other off. Mairead had a solid grip, but her stance and parry movements had no purpose. Like the others in the room, her basic sword skills and combat approaches were enormously lacking.

  Seeing Mairead fighting an armed man unsettled him. Aye, he had a penchant for beautiful women whose personality favored assertion and not compliance, but his protective instincts told him to snatch the weapon out of the young man’s hand and make him realize what a reckless idea it was to train with a woman. Then he wanted to order everyone out of the room so that he could show Mairead just what a woman should be doing with a man.

  Hamish took a deep breath, rubbed the back of his neck, and fought back the unwelcome need growing within him. Never again would he abstain from enjoying a woman�
��s company for so long. There was no other explanation for these constant lascivious thoughts.

  Mairead spotted him. She looked surprised for only a moment, then he saw the determination in her expression. He knew then that this was not just a farce, but a setup, and of Mairead’s doing. The woman had thought a pathetic display of skill would demonstrate Foinaven’s inability to protect itself. In turn, he would reach out to Conor and ask for help. Like most women, Mairead was willing to manipulate and lie to attain her goal. He should have known that no one so beautiful could be trusted.

  With a smirk, Hamish realized the group had been in there training for some time and Mairead planned to keep them there, waiting for him, until he arrived. They could continue until they collapsed from exhaustion as far as he was concerned.

  Hamish took a step back and was about to duck behind the partition to disappear the same way he had entered when he heard a loud scoff. “What we are doing here, old man, is hard enough without bored servants skulking about.”

  Hamish raised a brow at the insult. He could not decide whether the insult was more amusing or annoying. Crossing his arms, he stared at the older, lanky lad.

  The boy’s sparring partner grabbed his arm. “Be careful, Jaime,” he hissed, worry blanketing every feature of his face. “He might be one of Ulrick’s men.”

  Jaime shook his arm free. “If he were any good, he would have left with the rest of them. And he came from there,” he said, pointing to the servants’ entrance.

  His friend took another look at Hamish and retreated a step. “He doesn’t look like any servant I’ve ever seen.”

  Refusing to admit that his friend had a point, Jaime pursed his lips and pointed to the back door. “Whoever you are, you were not invited and are unwelcome.”

  Hamish narrowed his eyes and then shrugged his shoulders. “I was leaving when you chose to insult me.”

  The boy glared. The sparring partner swallowed, and the others close enough to hear what was happening had halted all movement.

  “Hamish!”

  All eyes, including Hamish’s, immediately shifted to the soft female cry.

  Mairead had not seen Hamish enter, but when she heard his deep baritone voice, her heart had stopped with fear. Underneath its jovial quality was something dark, cold, and very lethal, forcing her to shout out and get his attention.

  Hamish glanced in her direction and without a word, once again turned to leave.

  “Wait!” she called out, and then lifted up her gown and ran to where he stood.

  Mairead had seen him the previous day only during dinner, and it had been brief. Robert had been coughing so much he retired soon after they started their meal. Little Rab had wanted to be with his father and rather than sitting with only Selah and Mairead for company, Hamish heaped meat onto his plate, grabbed a mug, and took his leave. No one saw him during the morning and where he ate his noonday meals, no one could say.

  Just before Hamish could disappear behind the partition, Mairead reached his side and grabbed his arm, preventing him from leaving without stopping to physically remove her hand. She captured his gaze, hoping he would speak first, but just what it was she wanted him to say escaped her.

  The Hamish of her childhood had been a kind older brother, but the man right before her was nothing of the sort. The way he looked at her was not at all brotherly. Desire smoldered in his dark green gaze along with an unmistaken element of distrust. The combination was creating havoc on her senses.

  Flustered, she gestured to the men, all of whom were now standing and watching them. “Don’t you have anything to say?”

  Hamish pulled his chin inward, pretending to be confused. “You look very pretty,” he said in his most charming tone. “I prefer your hair down and this simple dress to the fancier ones you have been wearing.”

  Mairead felt her heart race and for a second, she was taken in by his flattery. But only for a second. She refused to be rattled by him. Hamish may be a renowned flirt, but she was not inexperienced in the art. If he meant to redirect her thoughts, he was going to discover that she was not so easily manipulated. She had brought these men in here to achieve a goal and she would not be goaded into anger or dissuaded off her mission.

  “That is not what I meant.”

  “No?”

  Mairead swung her arm out, gesturing to the small group gathering around them. “I meant as interim commander do you not have any advice that can help these men with their training?”

  Hamish arched a brow. Mairead’s anger had disappeared and in its place was a disturbing look of expectancy. Aye, she created the situation, but it was not out of ill will. It was out of something else . . . hope. Mairead was hoping he would seek Conor for help.

  For a moment, Hamish wished she had looked at him and saw hope. That he—not those he knew—could remove her fears. But she had not, nor was it likely she ever would. “It would take much more than two or three weeks of lessons to improve these lads.” Then, lowering his voice, he added, “And I am fairly certain you are aware of that.”

  Mairead put her hands on her hips and pursed her lips. Pieces of her hair had come loose, framing her face in such a way as to make him imagine what she might look like after a night of being in his arms. Some small, sane part of himself screamed to step away and look elsewhere, but his eyes defied the good advice. Instead, they perused her body.

  In return, Mairead did the unthinkable. Without breaking her gaze, she took a step even closer. “If you cannot train them, then at least give them advice.”

  His sheer size loomed over her. Women this close to him were either in his embrace or seeking ways to get some distance. Not Mairead. If anything, their proximity seemed to encourage within her a self-assuredness.

  Hamish’s jaw began to hurt it was so tense. She had jutted her chin out and straightened her shoulders in defiance, unaware that the move caused her gown to stretch tight around her breasts. The green in her hazel eyes sparkled with challenge. She was not trying to be beautiful and it only added to making her damn near irresistible.

  Mo chreach! He was turning into a McTiernay. They fought with their wives all the time . . . but at least they got to kiss their women after the battle.

  In truth, Hamish had always been baffled by McTiernay relationships. Verbally sparring with women was not something most men enjoyed doing. But Conor and Laurel argued ferociously and quite regularly. Each was incredibly stubborn and steadfastly determined to coerce the other into accepting their point of view. To Hamish, their arguments seemed pointless for rarely could either claim true victory. But he was finally beginning to recognize the side benefits that came with such heated debates. Those benefits, however, also came with a very permanent price when the woman was unwed and the younger sister of your brother’s wife. And Hamish planned on returning just as he came—alone.

  “I see not men who lack training,” he replied, refusing to keep his voice low. “I see would-be farmers playing with real, if not pitiful, swords. So the only advice I have is to go back to using sticks before someone gets hurt.”

  Jaime, the taller boy who had thought Hamish a servant, had heard enough. He did not care if Hamish was their temporary commander or not; he was no longer going to stand by idly and be insulted.

  He stepped forward, shifting everyone’s focus to him. His grip on his sword was so tight, Hamish could see the whites of his knuckles. “You know nothing about my skills and abilities.” Jaime’s anger was unmistakable.

  Hamish let his gaze float up and down the young man’s frame and twitched his lips. His dark hair fell unkempt significantly past his shoulders and the numerous freckles made him initially appear harmless. But he was as tall as Hamish and his frame was already rather muscular, most likely from hard labor. And his dark brown eyes glowered with indignation. The young man knew nothing about how to fight, but Hamish liked his courage. “A Highlander warrior in the making, are you?”

  Jaime gave a single curt nod, anger still radiating from
every pore.

  “Then you must be decent at the pike.” The boy’s eyes narrowed. “No? Then are you comfortable with the spear?” A tic started in the boy’s jaw and Hamish knew the young man’s so-called training had been limited to the makeshift sword he held in his hand. “Have you ever even thrown an axe hammer?”

  Hamish paused. Silence filled the room. He quickly scanned the faces and returned his scrutiny back to the one who had the gumption to at least try to defend his honor. Hamish knew his words were incendiary, but he needed to end this sham—not for just today, but forever. What was happening within these walls was practically a crime. They were doing little more than prepping themselves to get killed.

  Jaime stepped forward. “Fight me.”

  Hamish’s eyes widened upon hearing the unexpected challenge. He studied the lad and grinned. Jaime’s courage and pride were the first signs that at least one of them might someday be a true Highland warrior. “You cannot wield a weapon, but I admire your meanmna.”

  Hamish’s smile only infuriated Jaime further. “I know I’ll lose. But it won’t be as easy to beat me as you think.”

  Hamish was silent for a moment. Out of the corner of his eye he could see everyone watching and wondering just how Jaime would fare against him. Mairead was not among them. She knew. A muscle in Hamish’s jaw flexed at the reminder that Mairead was just using these men. It needed to end.

  Hamish rolled his eyes, knowing it would bait the young man into an attack, even though Hamish appeared weaponless.

  It worked.

  The moment Jaime made his move, Hamish reached for his dirk sheathed at his waist. In one smooth movement, he freed it and lunged forward. The moment he hit the blade near the hilt, the sword went flying just as Jaime lost his balance and fell to the ground. All gasped as they realized the tall youth was on the ground with Hamish’s blade at his throat.